Never Just One
by jlr125
Summary: "Did you know her?" Marta asked, looking at the name on the fake ID. Aaron looked at her questioningly. "June Monroe?" Cross sighed and went back to his business. "Not anymore."
1. Prologue

There Was Never Just One

Prologue

"Kitsome, Monroe. You're up."

June Monroe and Kenneth Kitsome are taken to their next activity for today, and it may be the most important one of their careers. Working for the army wasn't easy, especially when you're one of the best. As they stepped onto the field, the heat was excruciating and the weight of their suits wasn't helping. None of that mattered now; it was their turn to defuse this bomb. Kenneth kissed June on the cheek as neared their target. "You ready for this?"

"Always have been," June looked straight forward, plotting in her head. They took their stands and started to snip wires and push buttons and do what they did best. What Kenneth and June didn't know was that someone was watching. Someone, somewhere, knew about this all along. That person watched as they defused it, the one great creation that was all about to go to waste. _About to_.

With one click of a trigger the bomb exploded and sent both soldiers flying. Kitsome and Monroe couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't see; but they could think. As they laid there staring at nothingness, they thought and thought about the mission, about their lives, and about each other.

Hours later, headquarters started to get worried, so they went out to search for the fighting lovers. They found them both alive, but both unconscious. They weren't in the condition to stay anymore, so headquarters had an idea: They called the CIA.

"Hello, you've reached the CIA, how may I help you?" the receptionist answered the phone.

"It's Craig Danton speaking. Can you put Eric Byer on the phone?"

"Transferring you, Mr. Danton," he replied, while a few beeps were heard on the phone. Craig Danton looked at June Monroe, and then Kenneth Kitsome. His top soldiers were most likely in a coma.

"Mr. Danton, I hope you have some agents you'd like to promote."

"Not exactly, Byer," Craig rubbed his head and looked at the two unmoving bodies. "My top guns were blown out. They're not suited for this type of job anymore; I was hoping you could give them a chance." He sighed uneasily, "Their names are June Monroe and Kenneth Kitsome. They work well together and are currently in what looks like a coma."

"Alright, I'll take them. I'll bring them in tomorrow and see where I can put them."

"Thank you, sir."

"My pleasure; I'll see you tomorrow."

* * *

**_New Mexico_**

"You are in the Western CIA headquarters of New Mexico. And your name is June Monroe?" the interrogator asked. He looked at the girl sitting on the bed. She was beaten and bruised beyond comprehension.

"Y-yes," June's words came out muffled. She was hardly able to move without feeling a lingering pain all over her body. "Whe-Where's…" she struggled to make anything come out of her mouth. The interrogator leaned forward and raised an eyebrow, encouraging her to keep talking. "K- Kenneth…"

"I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry," he replied as he wrote down a quick observation report. Any other agent watching the interrogation would've thought he was an incredible liar. Although in reality, he felt pain. He was truly sorry for her, that poor hopeless girl sitting on the bed; June Monroe. June would've fought to defend herself and Kenneth in any way she could, but she couldn't. She sat there and cried, softly and painfully, until the interrogator left and a new one came in.

* * *

**_North Dakota_**

"You are in the Northern CIA headquarters of North Dakota. And your name is Kenneth Kitsome?" Just a day ago, that same interrogator was interviewing the 25-year-old June Monroe; now he was asking questions to man she loved, 25-year-old Kenneth Kitsome. He was damaged, badly. He had scars and burns and scratches all over his body, and it was hard to see without feeling sorry.

"Y- Yes, sir…"his words came out tired, slow, and slurred. Not because he was drunk, because he was broken. The man that asked him wrote down a few things on a clip board, and asked one last simple question.

"Any other concerns? Questions?" the interrogator hoped he had forgotten about the girl, for his sake and Kitsome's. At the same time, he didn't want Kenneth to forget; good times, memories, things that could make Kenneth Kitsome happy after this.

"M-mon…" Kitsome stuttered.

"What?"

"Mon-roe…" Kenneth felt pain as he said her name. The interrogator almost lost it, he was about to break down and cry, but that wasn't his job. His job was sick, and wrong, and he absolutely hated it. But he was hired, because he was one of the few people that could handle it. Before the interrogator left, he made sure to spit out that one last, terrible lie he would always regret.

"_I'm- I'm sorry… She didn't make it."_


	2. Chapter 1

Never Just One

Chapter 1

_(OC) Alison Shearing's PoV:_

"This is your last assignment before you get promoted."

I looked at the picture – short, strong, agile man. "Who is he?" I said to the boss of the office.

"He's a rogue Outcome agent. We can't tell you his name or anything about him. All we can say is that he is in hiding in Manila- the Philippines. Your mission is to kill him and confirm it; this is all on you, Shearing," he enlarged the picture on a computer screen. "Is there anything else you need?"

I thought about it. I could easily track him down now that I know the location, and no one else was really concerned in this mission. Then it hit me; it was a crazy, outrageous idea, but it was a good one. "I need to pay a visit to my sister."

"But she –"

"I know. But it's about time she finds out."

There was a knock at the door. It was undoubtedly Marta, I was just a bit worried she'd find out this was all a lie. I was in a fake house with fake belongings; everything was provided by work. I walked over to the door and took a deep breath, Marta was about to explode. I opened it as quietly as I could, that is until she saw me.

"Alison! I missed you – it's been years, oh my god where have you _been_?" she said with all the happiness and anger anyone could mix.

"Calm down, Shearing, we need to talk." We sat down at a small white table and pulled up two chairs.

"Why do you call me that? Shearing? We're _sisters; _we have the same last name." I raised an eyebrow at her; she already knew the answer to that question. We sat there in silence, until she finally gave in. "Look, I _know _you were adopted. You have green eyes and black hair, you're beautiful," she said sounding more angry than reassuring. "I don't even know your name of birth, dammit!"

"Marta, don't get all – "

"I'm not!" she slammed the table. We never got along; yes, we grew up together, but she knew we were different since childhood. "You were gone for _years._ I thought you were dead- "

"You didn't look hard enough," I rebutted, raising my voice. "You ignored me. We were going to meet after a long time of not seeing each other; you called me and told me you were coming _that day._ You never showed up." Her face reddened and suddenly I knew the explanation for all of this. She was a doctor for the federal government, for god's sake; she couldn't have just _lost_ her job. "Who was he?"

"I –,"she started an argument, but sighed at the realization that she really couldn't pull anything on me. "His name was Aaron Cross; he was one of my patients. He worked for a program in the CIA. One day, one of the doctors in my office started shooting everyone, and I was the only one who lived. Then, people were sent to 'ask me questions' about any trauma, but really their purpose was to kill me; they didn't want anyone to know about what had happened. Aaron saved me, and we ran from them; I couldn't talk to anyone without risking my life. After a while I started to have feelings for him, but he pushed me away; he said he 'didn't want to get distracted.'"

"What program did he work for?"

Marta was shocked by my bluntness, probably because of the unsuccessful love story she just told me. Either way, she decided to answer my question. "He worked for… Outcome," she said, a bit confused.

"Marta, I've got to go. It was nice seeing you again."

She stood up angrily, "You haven't even told me anything about yourself, I know no more than I did before!" She paced around and turned to face me again. "Tell me one thing about you. And make it important." I thought about it; my job - risky, my friends – I didn't have any, my name – _hell no._ Of course, I could say all of those things without saying them at all. I walked towards the door and let her out, and right before I closed it, I found the perfect response.

"Let's just say… You won't be seeing Aaron again." So, Aaron Cross. That was my target's name.


	3. Chapter 2

Never Just One

**_Aaron Cross's PoV:_**

_I'm being followed._

I look into my rear-view mirror to further inspect the car that's been following me for about half an hour. It's grey and small, with no license plate or brand name. The windshield is tinted so I can't see the driver; whoever this guy is, he knows his stuff. Finally aware of the danger I could be in, I speed up inconspicuously, driving into a crowded parking structure. He doesn't follow me straight in, though; he goes around once and follows me from a level below. I drive to the very top, where there are less cars and no people, and park there. Before he reaches where I am, I switch out the license plate with one of the many extras I have hidden in the glove compartment. Silently, I get into the passengers' seat and lower it until you can't see it through the window, and I wait.

Just seconds later, the car pulls into my level. I look up at my mirror and see that he's parking at the opposite side of the lot. I move the mirror at an angle where the driver can't see inside my car, but I can't see him either.

_The driver knows I'm here._

Suddenly, a loud crash hits my window, which is at the verge dropping shards all over me. I look towards the broken glass that seemed to form around a bullet hole. Reaching cautiously under my seat, I pull out a rifle and slide to the other side of the car. I open the door and get out from the drivers' side, holding my gun close. Five more bullets are shot at my car at random. I shoot as much as I can to the car before he fires back, aiming for where the shots came from. Knowing I wasn't going to win this just by running and gunning it, I think of a trick that has gotten every agent, every soldier, every time; the son of a bitch won't know what hit him.

I smirk to myself as a grab a random scrap of cloth and another gun from the inside of my car. I close the door and tie one end to the handle, and the other end to the trigger of the first gun. The gun swings under my car, shooting at his. I look up and notice that he's hiding behind the wheel, holding his fire. I dart across the parking lot until I reach his car, and pull off the final act. I slide over the hood, and aim and shoot at – _nothing. _Instead of being in place, he's behind me, with a gun right at my neck. "Turn around and I shoot," a deep, gruff voice says. It's easily detectible that he is hiding his voice to make it unrecognizable.

_How did he know? He anticipated my every move! I _invented _that trick!_ I spin around, lugging the gun at his head, but he had already ducked behind the car. I take stance, but he comes up behind me first, covering my eyes and clutching my throat. Then I realize something- I still haven't seen his face. _What is he hiding?_ I break his grip and turn to grab him in front, but he moves with all the agility I've ever seen – twisting my arm and pushing my head down on the car from behind, all in one motion. He grabs my head tighter and bangs it one hard time against the grey hood of the car, and for a few seconds I'm out. All I hear is the loud clunk of combat boots as he walks away. I get up, staggering. _A soldier? A spy? An agent? _I hear a click and see his arm rise through blurred vision. He's on the phone.

After about thirty seconds I start clearing up. I open the door to the car and start to press buttons and search papers. _Nothing._ Then a muffled transmission comes through the radio. "Report," I can barely make out. But the next part comes just a little clearer.

"Give me a day," said a voice surprisingly distinct, "I'll be done with him by then."

_A woman._


End file.
